


The Dagger and The Chalice

by wealcomplete



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Elia Fests, elia as eleanor of aquitaine, inspired by eleanor of aquitaine and henry ii, sort of medievalish, women actually doing things in asoiaf besides dying in childbirth or being horribly violated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:06:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26768482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wealcomplete/pseuds/wealcomplete
Summary: "The King doted on Fair Rosamond, who was the loveliest girl in all the world; and he had a beautiful Bower built for her in a Park at Woodstock; and it was erected in a labyrinth, and could only be found by a clue of silk. The bad Queen Eleanor, becoming jealous of Fair Rosamond, found out the secret of the clue, and one day, appeared before her, with a dagger and a cup of poison, and left her to the choice between those deaths." - Charles DickensElia Martell, in the face of her husband's rejection, builds a kingdom of her own.
Relationships: Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen
Comments: 15
Kudos: 79
Collections: Elia Martell Fanworks Week





	The Dagger and The Chalice

_There is a pretty story told of this Reign, called the story of Fair Rosamond. It relates how the King doted on Fair Rosamond, who was the loveliest girl in all the world; and how he had a beautiful Bower built for her in a Park at Woodstock; and how it was erected in a labyrinth, and could only be found by a clue of silk. How the bad Queen Eleanor, becoming jealous of Fair Rosamond, found out the secret of the clue, and one day, appeared before her, with a dagger and a cup of poison, and left her to the choice between those deaths. How Fair Rosamond, after shedding many piteous tears and offering many useless prayers to the cruel Queen, took the poison, and fell dead in the midst of the beautiful bower, while the unconscious birds sang gaily all around her._

* * *

**Lovely Eyes and Noble Countenance**

She does not rage when word of her husband’s disappearance comes first by raven and then by hushed couriers whose sand silks are stained with the salt of the Blackwater Bay. She goes still when she hears it. Her palms rest on her skirts. She folds her fingers upwards, as if to make a clenched fist, then pauses, and draws them back down. Just as she did at Harrenhal, just as she did in court when her daughter was derided as smelling Dornish. Still as an untouched pool in the Water Gardens. She is still as Rhaegar returns without his winter rose, his rose of the world, the fairest maiden in the land. He has hidden her away with only the most trusted of his men to guard her. Outwardly, she is as docile and placid as any sweet wife greeting her husband after a long journey. She dresses in scarlet and black, rubies and garnets at her wrists and neck and fingers, presents chattering Rhaenys and gurgling Aegon to him in full court. Elia receives her husband in her own chambers that night, and presses his hand tightly, as if with longing. 

He had expected the strike of a viper, the sting of a scorpion. Her stillness, her dark and lovely eyes calm him. _Sweet Elia, after all she is Dornish_ , he thinks, _I should never have worried of it. She understands_ . He bows his head into her dark, jasmine-scented hair, not noticing the tension in Elia’s arms, the strain in her jaw and neck. He is too blinded by gratefulness to notice. Her mother’s words come to her, again and again. She recites them to herself in silence, in stillness. _Darling sun,_ the Princess had told her, _you are Doran’s heir until he marries. There are only two souls between you and the spears of Dorne and my sun has begun to set. There will be many who know this and hear tell of your delicate nature. You will know them in their guises. Bear welcome in your lovely eyes, your hand, your tongue. Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it._

Until she knows what her sop husband has planned, she must be the flower for him. Not his rose, no, but a sweet-smelling flower nonetheless. Then, when she knows, she will strike.

* * *

**Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?**

At court, it becomes the rage to count wives across time. Aegon the Conqueror had two wives at once. Maegor had many. Lady Lyanna is of the North and follows the Old Gods like Black Betha, but the Kings of Winter only ever wed one woman at a time. Barbrey Ryswell is one of the few Northron ladies at court and is heard to sneer, _even the Night King took only one woman to wife_ . Elia can count as well as any merchant-wife taking stock of wares. Rhaegar will only have one wife, she swears, and that will be Elia of Dorne. There will only be one queen in the land, and only Aegon and Rhaenys will inherit Rhaegar’s realm. Rhaegar tells her of sister-wives, of Rhaenys and Visenya. Two queens, ice and fire, honored as one. Elia closes her eyes, turns away in a whirl of burgundy velvets, dark as Dornish red. Rhaenys was killed slowly in Dorne, and Visenya was hardly cherished by Aegon except as a warrior. Visenya did vile sorcery to place her blood above Rhaenys’ on the Iron Throne. _Will I be the cruel bitch who separates the true lovers, or will I be the soft twit who lets power slip by me?_ She wants to laugh to think of herself as either.

Instead, she brings her hand, delicate fingers heavy with gold-and-rubied rings from Myriah Martell’s own coffers, to cup Rhaegar’s pale face, his deep violet eyes hungry with prophecy and destiny. She asks _Do you remember how the court of Sunspear sang of us as Myriah and Daeron the Good come again?_ Rhaegar smiles against the press of her hand, thinking of those starry nights in the lemon-scented gardens. How lucky he is to have a clever wife to whom he can turn for help. Elia watches his gaze soften. Her eyes harden and she squeezes her fingers tight against his face and tells him _Instead I married Aegon the Unworthy._ Rhaegar recoils as if struck with a blow. 

_You swore a vow to me, husband, and a vow to the realm in the eyes of the Seven. Your winter rose will not destroy either._

Fair Lyanna is hidden away, no one knows where, but she haunts every conversation with her crown of winter roses. The silver prince-turned-king will not tell. But ravens mark the skies with their dark wings glinting, black, then blue, then the deepest green against the sun. The sun watches them fly and lies low in the sky, false spring fading back into cold winter. King’s Landing is powdered with snow that melts and usually turns the roads to bogs, but the usual stench is replaced with the smell of wood burning stoves and evergreen sap. For once, Elia can breathe deeply as she journeys from Red Keep to the Sept of Baelor in a cloth-of-gold palanquin, surrounded by braziers burning the sweet-spicy dried sap called _almru_ from the scraggly trees of her home. Her courtiers distribute woolens and sturdy needles to pierce the thick cloth, needles made from Uller alloys forged in the depths of scorching sand. The route is easily climbed: Elia has brought barrels and barrels of Red Dune sand to the city to absorb the run-off and keep the roads from flooding.The Sun of Dorne floods King’s Landing with pale yellow wax candles made from the beehives at Lemonwood, Dornish peppers to warm the blood and make palatable the watery stews of bare larders, and sweetly tart orange preserves to keep the gums from bleeding. The Water Gardens is emptied of troubadors who flock to their new patroness to sing of Myriah and Daeron, of Nymeria’s loves, and of the warm air of the utmost south. The High Septon burns Dornish frankincense when Rhaegar goes to see him, and serves well-aged Dornish reds. 

Elia completes her circuit of the Seven in the Great Sept every day, even when the cool morning air robs her of her will to rise and the gossip of the keep turns to a miasma thick enough to choke. She is still there, kneeling with her head bowed in front of the Mother, when Rhaegar sweeps out of his conference in a simmering dragon’s anger. Elia knows to refuse the cushions the septas offer her with a polite smile; the smallfolk whisper about their delicate princess whose piety touches their heart. Lady Blackmont is the only one who knows the cost of this performance: padded petticoats hid under a modest kirtle to keep the ache in her bones from getting too severe, then warm salt water baths to keep the swelling down. 

The High Septon knows the Faith and the Faith will not countenance a second wife while the first still lives. The man salivates at the thought of having a king to dance to his tune and considers what could be gained from saying yes to this request. Then he thinks of the bloody smiles of weirwoods, of a Northron witch whispering spells and curses into the ears of tender babes in the royal nursery; the influence of such a woman on a man such as Rhaegar, a man who prefers songs to prayers. And then, the man is righteous in defying the king, thinking of the women who would fear a Lady Lyanna in their own homes, usurping their vows and rightful place. Gentle mothers, full of grace, left with nothing.

Rhaegar paces in his privy cabinet, up and down on the vibrant ruby-red mosaic of the Conquest. His men, the king’s men, have never seen him in such a state of agitation. That a man of whose father was a hedge knight would defy the blood of Valyria is unthinkable. Rhaegar’s eyes glow bright as wildfire as he demands, _will no one rid me of this troublesome septon?_ Jon Connington and Richard Lonmouth exchange quick glances. The skulls on Lonmouth’s cape glint in promise.

**Author's Note:**

> "Lovely eyes and noble countenance" is a description of Eleanor of Aquitaine from a troubadour of the court. I thought it fitting regarding the description of Oberyn having "viper" eyes.
> 
> "Bear welcome in your lovely eyes, your hand, your tongue. Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it." is of course a quote from Macbeth, spoken by Lady Macbeth. GRRM uses it as inspiration when he writes about Doran being the grass that hides the viper (Oberyn).
> 
> I love that Myriah and Daeron are the narrative foils to Elia and Rhaegar, and I really love fics about them.
> 
> almru is the Arabic word for myrrh. It felt weird to use the word myrrh when there's literally a place in Planetos called Myr and I wanted to be clear that this stuff is from Dorne, not Essos. Myrrh and frankincense come from trees that grow in pretty inhospitable places - it makes sense that Dorne would have the Westerosi market on non-floral scents (I'll give the Reach the florals but citrus, musk, myrhh and frankincense are all Dornish!)
> 
> Elia's sept perfomance - I have a chronic illness and a lot more goes into fixing/concealing it than you'd think. We never know the basics of Elia's "frail health" but a eugenicist father-in-law, two pregnancies in three years, and terrible stress probably compounded it all.
> 
> And of course, "Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest" is what popular culture tells us King Henry II said about Thomas Becket. Spoilers for very old history: Becket gets murdered in the church. Stay tuned for next time, where we get a glimpse into Rosamund/Lyanna's bower.


End file.
